


cold like me

by ifloveistheanswer



Category: Daft Punk
Genre: M/M, Robot!Thomas/Human!Guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:06:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifloveistheanswer/pseuds/ifloveistheanswer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The accident claims only Thomas' human body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. meeting

**Author's Note:**

> old stuff i deleted a long time ago... originally, they were all written as oneshots just vaguely set in the same "universe," but i've arranged them in "chronological" order for ease of understanding =) because i am pasting in from a pdf, some of the formatting/spacing might be odd. please accept this in lieu of a 2130 AD update (laughs), i'm too busy to write overlords at the moment...

Guy's steps seem to echo for miles down the cold, utilitarian hallways. He barely even notices the intermittently placed paintings and couches that are probably meant to bring softness into the otherwise bleak laboratory. They're a blur in the corners of his already bleary eyes; his vision is fixated squarely ahead of him. The scientist escorting him seems to understand his need for space, or else she's equally focused on the task at hand. Breathing, footsteps, and his own heartbeat fill his ears with dissonance.

  
They reach double doors at the end of the hallway, flanked by two more scientists. Guy's stomach does a flip at the sight—whether from excitement or fear, he cannot discern at this point. One of the scientists says something, probably something important, but Guy can't hear it. The pounding blood is a roar now. He nods desperately, hoping that it's an appropriate response for whatever was said, and it thankfully satisfies the employee.  
The doors open. And there is Thomas.

  
For a moment, they just stare. Guy knew it'd be different—really different. The scientists warned him already. (So many times, they warned him. He was starting to wonder if they were trying to psych him out. 'He won't look human, you know.' 'He might not remember everything. He might not remember you.' 'It's an expensive and untested operation. It's possible he'll short circuit years from now without weekly maintenance...')

  
The sleek, silver head and the flickering visor are not a surprise. Neither are the clenching and unclenching silver digits. Wearing an oil-stained medical smock, fidgeting nervously in the doorway as if afraid to leave the room, Thomas actually looks a lot more human than the monstrosities Guy's imagination had conjured up on sleepless nights. He feels relief, and at the same time, he mourns the loss of soft, flawed skin. Unruly, unkempt hair. Awkward smiles and shining eyes.  
His stomach does another sickening flip, but he takes the first step forward.

  
"Thomas?" he ventures. His voice is hoarse with disuse. "Thomas... Do you remember who I am?"  
It's possible the scientists have already retaught Thomas his name, or that all the important memories associated with the name have been lost. But still, when the cyborg answers, "...Guy-Man...", Guy can't help but throw his arms around its torso. He probably shouldn't expose the newly built creature to liquids, but Guy cries into Thomas' chest anyway. None of the scientists scold him for it.

  
"Do y-you..." He's terrified to ask. He looks up at the expressionless face, yearning for what is no more (and at the same time, grateful to have anything to hold at all). "Do you remember me? ...Us?"

  
For another moment, Thomas is silent. His chin tilts down, his visor displaying a confused sequence of lights. Then he lifts his arms slowly, uncertain like every other movement he makes, and wraps them around Guy. He leans his whole body into the embrace, and something akin to a sigh hisses from his vocalizer.

  
"I remember."

  
Happiness and sadness and relief and apprehension and every emotion known to man seem to flood Guy in compensation for everything Thomas has lost.


	2. guilt

It's that awful, plunging feeling that starts in his throat and burns an acidic pathway down into his stomach. It's an unwanted overdose of adrenaline that shoots his heart into painful velocities and leaves his hands trembling like cold, frail leaves caught in an autumn wind. His intimacy with guilt has long since crawled into unhealthy terrain, and he's allowed it to trap him there in its barbed clutch. He's become a willful prisoner to this cycle; a morbid part of him feels like he deserves it.

Guy wonders—in the unholiest hours of the morning, in the quiet recesses of his mind, whenever he catches his reflection in that black visor and remembers the spots where eyes once were—how vividly Thomas remembers the explosion, if at all.  
He hopes with all of his heart that the memory was purged along with the handful of other assorted memories that unfortunately escaped Thomas' poor, injured brain. If Guy's recollections of the accident are this bad, he can only barely begin to imagine how bad it would be for Thomas to think about.

Well, at least Thomas' memory of it wouldn't be plagued by sickening contrition the way Guy's is.

Sometimes he envisions that deafening boom happening once again, his ears shattering from the sheer magnitude of the sound, empty white noise flooding his head thereafter. He feels the sting of flames leaping out and licking at his skin, the piercing splinters of shrapnel, but most importantly, the body over him that _shielded him_ from the brunt of it all.

_Muted sirens. Medical staff, everywhere, grabbing and pulling the two bodies from the debris. White noise, red vision, then black. The next he knew, he was in a hospital bed. His mind registered distant words as if they were snippets of a dream, things like, "superficial damage" and "incredibly fortunate." None of them were Thomas' voice, though, so he largely tuned them out. With his consciousness dipping in and out of commission, he didn't have the energy to listen to strangers. Only Thomas._

_Thomas. ...Where was Thomas...?_

And it's times like these that he gets the plunging feeling again. He comes out of it sweating and flailing, grabbing for someone that he's certain won't be there anymore—

His arms latch onto a body that's a bit firmer than normal human flesh, but it's next to him and it's alive. He pulls himself against its chest, giving little thought to the fact that his shivering grip is certain to shake the other figure into alertness.  
Thomas' distorted voice trills Guy-Man's name softly, questioningly. Silver hands instinctively reach around the quivering shoulders, rubbing circles. Thomas isn't sure what has his partner so rattled, but he shows his concern as best as he can without frowns or kisses.

The overwhelming kindness makes Guy's chest ache. He feels so unworthy. Thomas is the one with the right to panicked flashbacks. Thomas is the one who deserves soothing embraces and whispered words of reassurance. If anyone is entitled to boundless sympathy, it's Thomas.

Yet here they are, Guy cradled in Thomas' arms. God, it makes Guy feel sicker.


	3. weight

"Stop worrying so much. You're fine."

  
Guy wants to drop dead from embarrassment the first time Thomas catches him glaring at a scale. This is sensitive, confidential information. This is supposed to be between him and the arrow at his feet ( _maybe it's off by a bit, maybe I just need to adjust it..._ ). His weight shouldn't matter so much—he knows it shouldn't—and that's precisely why he wanted to keep his preoccupation with it a secret. But the damned bathroom door's lock doesn't always work. Thomas doesn't knock.

So here we are.

"Who's worrying? I'm just... checking."

"This is the fourth time this week I've seen you 'just checking.'" Thomas leans against the doorframe. "Is that normal for you...?" Okay, so apparently this isn't the first time he's been caught. But there's no sarcasm or disdain in Thomas' words—there never is —and for that reason, Guy finds it difficult to get irritated at him.

"Yes... no. No. I've been..." He fumbles for a suitable excuse. Or at least something that doesn't make him sound incredibly vain. "I mean, I want to make sure I'm healthy."

"Like I said, you're fine." Thomas enters the room and stoops to rest his metal chin on Guy's shoulder. "If you're so worried, though, perhaps some exercise would benefit you more than making faces at the scale."

Guy scowls. "Easy for a robot to say."

Thomas steps back and flickers a spark of red across his LCD screen. "Right. A robot..." He used to be a lot more subtle about his means of physical expression, but the loss of a real face has long since forced him to cope via exaggerated movements. His upper torso slouches as if it's about to cave into itself, and his hands ball up tightly. It's like he's trying to frown with his entire body.

  
"Sorry," Guy quickly apologizes, turning to face Thomas. He wiggles his hands into Thomas' and dips his head in penitence. "That was insensitive of me."

  
The taller of the two basks in respectful silence for a bit before accepting the apology. "It's okay. Besides, you're right. Never gaining weight has its perks. Although it's a wash, more or less, when you consider that my metal framework makes me much heavier."

  
"I guess." Guy makes several futile attempts to smooth the front of his shirt flat. It bunches infuriatingly in all the wrong places. He considers broadening his collection of oversized coats to compensate. "People can't tell that from just looking, though."

  
Long arms hook around Guy's back and hold him comfortably against his partner's chest. "I'll tell you what. Let's order some suits—something nice to wear for whenever we release this new album. Get yours a size or so smaller. Then we'll start going on walks or something so that you can aspire to fit into it."

  
Guy considers the proposition. "We could try, I guess. Don't blame me if our album gets delayed because of this, though."

 

Thomas erupts with light, tinny laughter, and his display glows amiably. "If you will finally be happier with yourself, then it'll be worth it."

* * *

  
It's a few weeks until they start uploading teasers and promotional material. For the first time in quite a while, they find themselves in a dressing room again, struggling with latex and helmets and brand new suits. One hour until the photo shoot begins. Thomas calls over his shoulder, though he's sure Guy couldn't care less whether he watches him dress or not.

  
"How goes it?"

There's some shuffling about, then a triumphant voice: "Fits like a fucking _glove_."

  
Constraint flies out the window, and Thomas spins around to chirp happily at his friend. He's never had an issue with Guy's chub, and in some ways he will miss the softness of extra padding, but Guy's never looked more content and comfortable with himself. It fills Thomas with an incredible sense of pride.

  
"Knew you could do it."

"And it only took three years."


	4. sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm skipping over a chapter because i'm too embarrassed to post it, ha ha. basically, in it, thomas received tactile censors, so he's regained a very rudimentary sense of touch between this chapter and the last one. that's alllllll you neeeeeed to knoooooow

Thomas misses many things about being human, though he rarely talks about them anymore. (He doesn't want to complain; Guy already feels enough guilt that he was spared in the explosion and Thomas was not.) Some of them are things his limited processing can't even quite recreate in his robotic memories: things like the tastes of food, or the scent of flowers. They are outside his current realm of understanding, yet a lingering desire remains. One thing he misses the most, though, is sleeping.

  
It's not about the rest or the break it used to give him from everyday life. That's what charging is for. He doesn't even miss dreams all that much; he's made himself an algorithm for randomized mental imagery that he allows to run whenever he wants to imitate a dream (although it's admittedly more like a screensaver than anything else...).

  
Rather, it's the wait he cannot stand. The hours of solitude he has to spend without Guy around. He hates himself for feeling so dependent on having someone else to entertain him, and some nights he tries to put himself to work just to have a distraction. He's written a handful of mediocre songs by himself during the nighttime stretches. He's done a few last night deep cleanings of their small house, too. But even as a robot, he cannot run all day, and his charger cord is short. Plus, Guy is a light sleeper, and most of Thomas' hobbies include making noise.

  
So he sits, tethered to the outlet by Guy's window, running his dream algorithm, and waits.

  
He could always ask Guy to shut him down before bed. Guy's even offered once or twice. But Thomas does not want to admit that being shut down terrifies him; it's disturbingly similar to dying, with each of his limited senses slowly slipping away from him before fading to black... Of course, there's also the fear that something will happen, and no one will ever start him up again, and then he'll _really_ be good as dead. Having already had a near-death experience once in his life, he understandably prefers to avoid anything that reminds him of it.

  
So... he sits. And he waits.

  
Guy's breathing changes once he's fallen into deep sleep. It's slower and just a little louder. Once Thomas hears it, he takes it as a chance to contemplate Guy's back, turned to him from the bed. Buried under blankets, his human companion looks smaller than ever. Guy's body rises and falls with each inhale and exhale, and Thomas finds himself trying to match the speed of his internal fans to the rhythm. It does nothing, but it does remind him a little of what it was like to breathe. He thinks, anyway.

  
Thomas opens and closes one fist, feeling the contact of his own fingers. With his new sensors come the wonderful option of feeling temperatures. His own body is neutral. The breeze from the open window is just a little cold. He glances between the window and Guy and considers the fact that Guy might get cold, too.

  
Maybe.

  
He gets up and approaches the bedside, looking down at his charger cord to make sure he doesn't accidentally pull himself unplugged. He sits and considers some more. He knows his slick metal bits are rarely agreeable for the human touch, but perhaps his clothed portions would be comfortable enough...

  
 _Maybe_. But Guy likes his space, so maybe he'll just be seen as a nuisance or an intrusion. They've shared beds after certain activities before, but that's just because Guy tends to knock out rather hard right after the fact. Otherwise, Thomas has been too scared to ask if they could sleep together. He doesn't want to come off as clingy or strange, especially since they both have their own beds and they have no real reason to both cram into one small space. Thomas is only getting away with charging in Guy's room right now because he fibbed and said his own room is having issues with the outlets.

  
Why is it so hard for him to just say outright what it is he wants?

  
He supposes some part of him feels insufficient. The reasons are obvious; he's heavily incapacitated in every imaginable aspect of his life now, and there are days where he feels more like a cheap knock-off of the Thomas that Guy used to know, rather than just Thomas trapped in a robot's body. How can he possibly make up for things that he's physically _incapable_ of doing? The question nags endlessly at the corners of his mind.

  
What makes him think that lying next to Guy at night will give even a fraction of the same comfort that his human body once gave?

  
He holds his head and curses at himself. Stupid, foolish, embarrassing bolt brain.

  
"You're too loud," comes a low, groggy voice out of nowhere, and Thomas would have jumped out of his skin if he had any. "Rustling around over there, mumbling to yourself... Is something wrong?"

  
"No, no," Thomas blurts. He thinks for a brief moment that maybe shutting himself down now wouldn't be such a bad thing after all. "I'm sorry I woke you up. I'll go—"

  
A hand grabs the back of his jacket and pulls him back down onto the bed before he has a chance to escape. Thomas turns to shoot Guy a bewildered screen of question marks. Guy smiles sleepily.

  
"Why don't you lie down? You're going to get cold all by yourself over at the window."

  
One more gentle tug coaxes Thomas into relaxing at the far right side of the bed. He squeezes his limbs into a compact, streamlined shape, trying as hard as possible to not take up too much space, but the other man curls up against his chest and flings an arm around his waist.

  
"Good night, Thomas," Guy says before closing his eyes. Comfortable and careless, without a trace repulsion or hesitation.

  
"...Good night, Guy-Man." In the wake of Guy's easy affection, he feels somewhat less at war with himself.

  
Tonight, the wait for morning isn't so bad.


	5. waterproof

Guy isn't sure if Thomas does it on purpose or not, but in his time as a robot, he's developed a great deal of overstated physical quirks. Presumably, he does this to express his emotions more clearly, but Guy doesn't want to ask and embarrass him. In place of uneven breathing or the creasing of his brow are broad, flailing hand gestures and sweeping—sometimes dangerous, if Thomas isn't keeping track of his limbs— body movements. Instead of smiling, he'll shuffle his feet and bob his head to the beat of some invisible song heard only by him. Instead of frowning, his arms wilt as if they've been detached from his body.

  
And, well. Door slamming is a pretty good indication of a sour mood, too. That one's a no-brainer.

  
The silver bot stalks into the kitchen with heavy footsteps and casts himself into a chair at their small dining table. Guy glances up from his pancake batter—the tilt of Thomas' head and the way he's angling his knees in Guy's direction are dead giveaways to the fact that Thomas wants to rant—and says nothing. Thomas is practically jittering with nervous energy; it won't be long before the torrent of words follow—

  
"I feel like those scientists are just dicking around with me now," he begins, firm and articulate in a way that sounds rehearsed. It's evident that he's been steaming about this the entire trip home. "They're using me as some kind of toy! And—and—and I'm getting really sick of it."

  
As it is rare for the eternally tranquil Thomas to blow off negative emotions like this, Guy is not especially well versed in the realm of consolation, but he replies with what he hopes is a soothing voice, "Now, now." He flips another pancake onto his plate and lathers it with generous amounts of butter. "Why do you say that?"

  
"They called me in at four in the morning— _four_! Do you have any idea what that does to my charging cycle?—and I've been there since. That's eight hours of scientists with their awful, old hands all over me."

  
By trying to look up and nod sympathetically at the right intervals, Guy accidentally pours a little more syrup than he'd like, but he'll manage. "That's quite a long time," he affirms.

  
"And for what! For some—some waterproofing prototype upgrade that I didn't even ask for. What am I going to do with that? I can't possibly swim. As if last week's idiotic GPS experiment wasn't enough." The new internal mapping system had given Thomas a robot equivalent of a headache all weekend, chiming directions at him nonstop until he figured how to shut the program off. The kicker was that Thomas isn't really even at liberty to leave the house, for fear of the prying human gaze. A lot of good _that_ upgrade can do him. At least he'll never lose his way to the kitchen late at night.

  
"Well... you don't have to be scared of doing the dishes now." Guy shrugs and continues to frown between bites of his dripping lunch. "I am sorry that they're testing so much shit on you, though. I'll call them tonight and see what I can do." He can only imagine how harrowing it would be for him to get prodded and spoon fed with new medicines at the doctor every week.

  
"Thank you," Thomas' voice thrums out, subdued and weary. "It's hard, you know? I'm still not completely comfortable with watching someone pop open my insides, taking stuff out and putting stuff in willy nilly. It doesn't hurt, of course, but..."

  
Guy scoots his chair over close enough to lean onto his companion's shoulder. The acrid scents of oil and hot metal meet his nostrils, and they're at that point in their friendship where he can shamelessly announce, "You smell like scientists."

  
"I can't imagine that's a good thing."

"Not really, no." Guy sits up straight to finish his food. After the last morsel has disappeared, inspiration hits him. "Hey, maybe waterproofing isn't so useless after all."

  
"Are you really going to ask me to do the dishes right after eight hours of surgery?" The robot folds his arms, unimpressed.

  
"No, no, no, dummy. You can take showers now. Real ones, not towel baths!"

  
Thomas' LCD does glow faintly at the thought. Towel baths are no more fun than they are convenient. Which is to say, not at all. Using a damp towel—but not too wet!—with just the right amount of soap—not too soapy!—to actually ensure he gets clean— without accidentally dripping into some important seam that might short circuit him!—is nothing to sneeze at. If he had a nose to worry about, anyway.

  
"I guess that's true. They did say something about me withstanding fifty tons of water, or something like that. Showers should be okay." A red smile flickers across his screen. Guy knows him well enough to read the nondescript expression as wry.

  
"Want to test it out, then? I need a shower too, anyway."

Thomas straightens his spine at the proposition. "Together?"

  
Guy was casual about it before, but now he falters slightly in the face of Thomas' hesitation. His lids lower, and his gaze shifts to his feet. "Uh. I mean, if you're okay with it. Sorry. I didn't mean to invite myself in."

  
"No, no. I'm fine with it. It'd be easier with your help anyway..."

  
Guy remains unconvinced. Thomas pulls his hand and leads him out. Their shared house is modest and can easily be traversed in its entirely within a few minutes, so there's not much room for second thoughts in the timeframe stretching between the kitchen and their destination.

* * *

  
Thomas turns on the water and flinches at his proximity to it, but then he remembers the need for that fear is unnecessary now. He slips a hand underneath the faucet's flow and determines the exact temperature for a bit before deeming it suitable. The temperature doesn't matter much to him, but Guy's sensitive flesh might not appreciate a 70º shower. Probably definitely not.

  
While Thomas has been monitoring the water, Guy's already shed his t-shirt and jeans onto the bathroom floor. Out of the corner of his visor, Thomas glimpses Guy turning his body away before sliding the underwear off. Thomas tries not to laugh about this; body timidity hardly seems to matter when they're about to bathe together anyway, but oh well. He supposes that's just a part of his companion's naturally reserved tendencies.

  
Come to think of it, it's almost a little shocking that Guy suggested that the both of them shower in the first place. Despite their comfort with each other and the affection of acts they've performed together in the past, Guy still tends to keep a careful distance between them. Whether it's from embarrassment or just a natural desire for personal space, Thomas cannot tell. A part of him hopes that Guy isn't forcing himself to do something uncomfortable for his sake, and another part is privately pleased at the prospect of Guy pushing beyond his margins of comfort, just for Thomas.

  
Either way, Thomas sets his mind to making this experience a pleasant one. Hastily slipping his jacket and pants off, he gets Guy's attention with the noisy clatter of the opening shower curtain.

  
"Are you ready?" Guy folds his arms over his chest, and Thomas really wishes he wouldn't. "Yeah."

  
Thomas takes Guy's hand and helps him step over the edge of the tub. He follows after, allowing the other to take a position between himself and the shower head; Guy probably needs the water more than he does. The long-haired man leans down to lather his hands in soap, then turns his back to the stream, facing Thomas with bubbly palms.

  
"Let's clean you off first. You'll be fastest," he says. His touch starts at the junction between Thomas' neck and shoulders, lathering down the slopes and across his collar. His hands mold carefully around each curve, thumbs swirling in slow and attentive circles so as not to miss a single spot. Thomas stares dumbly for a moment before it occurs to him to help work the soap in as well. The sleekness of two pairs of hands, wet with warm water, gliding across his chest, sides, and stomach is different in a way he didn't expect. Not to say that it isn't welcome.

  
Grazing up Thomas' sides once more, Guy takes note of the rows of open ports here and there. He's always been afraid of messing with them or damaging them before, but now his fingers trace curious circles around one's entrance.

  
"So... it's okay if water gets into these?" he asks, cautious still.

"Should be."

"'Should be'..." Guy echoes in a low murmur. He bites his bottom lip and risks pressing a moist finger in, regardless. The bit of resistance that its narrow opening gives his tip sends a tiny ripple of... some sort of sensation through Thomas, but nothing feels bad or damaged, and Guy hasn't been electrocuted. So that's a relief, at least.

  
"That's fine," Thomas utters.

  
Guy gets the smallest shadow of a grin on his face and proceeds to lavish a great deal of—probably extraneous, really, but again, not unwelcome—attention towards wiping each entrance clean. After one or two are done, he presses several fingers into ports on both of his sides and wiggles them in as deeply as they can go. It feels foreign and intrusive in a way Thomas isn't sure is necessarily good for his hardware, waterproofed or not, but something about the pressure and the tightness and the scramble of sensory input it shoots at him keeps him from telling Guy to stop. The inherent closeness of the act compels him.

  
"Thomas..."

  
Thomas likes the quality of Guy's voice against the tiled walls, just a little airy and just a little muffled by the constant pitter patter of the shower. Steam is fogging his vision slightly, but he makes a point of burning his partner's contented expression into his memory. He wants to remember the vulnerability of this moment.

  
"Guy," he replies as fondly as he can possibly manage with a single syllable. He moves his hands to Guy's cheeks, lightly scrubbing pliable skin with the pads of his fingers. Copying the pressing/encircling method, Thomas works the soap in from Guy's scalp to his hips. Guy closes his eyes at some point, continuing to move his own hands up and around Thomas's body, and Thomas wishes so much that he could kiss each of those pale eyelids.

  
His touches must act in lieu of kisses. He pulls Guy in, hooking his arms around the smaller man's frame and kneading a meandering line up each bump of Guy's spine. He counts each vertebra. Guy sighs happily and rests his chin on Thomas' right shoulder, moving away only briefly to push a wet lock of hair out of his face. Thomas lays claim to the expanse of Guy's lower back and uses the anchorage to draw their bodies even closer together, then presses his thigh forward to rub against Guy's.

  
Even encased in the noise of the drizzle, Thomas can hear Guy breathing more loudly, though he does not resist or move away. Guy is a sexual person; there's never been a doubt about that. But more than sexuality, right now Thomas is focused on intimacy. He wants to see that emotional barrier that Guy puts between himself and others come tumbling down. And then, maybe, he'd like to crush its remains into a fine powder.

  
He'll have to see how it goes.

  
Guy's smooth, sopping wet hair clings to Thomas' fingers as he works in conditioner. The different textures of a body have never been more fascinating to him. Strands that are usually feathery beneath his hands are thick and heavy with the saturation of water, and he pets it curiously. Any regrets he feels over not having hair of his own anymore are suppressed by admiration for Guy's glistening mane.

  
"You're beautiful," Thomas says, and it's sudden and maybe kind of cheesy, but he wants Guy to know how he feels.

  
Guy snorts, though his averted gaze clues Thomas in to his slight embarrassment. His arms cross over his chest again. "No, but thanks."

  
"Yes," Thomas insists more firmly. The idea of experiencing discomfort with one's own appearance is a thing of the past for an unchanging robot, but he can scrape together enough of his old memories to feel sympathy for Guy. The duality of human vulnerability is something Thomas has not quite managed to work his mind around, yet he finds himself enticed by it. It means weakness, declining health, and even death, eventually. But it also means soft smiles, emotions untempered by logic algorithms, and a beating heart. There's beauty in that, even more profoundly so in the man that understands Thomas better than anyone else, and Thomas wishes he could express that more succinctly. He wishes love were a concept he could quantify into something measurable.

  
Maybe the heat of the shower is clouding his judgment, but he touches the lower half of his flat, metal face to Guy's forehead in what he hopes Guy will recognize as a kiss. Chrome rests against flesh for a moment before moving away, and Thomas feels self-conscious about the whole thing for some reason. But a look of understanding flickers across Guy's features. He wipes away the wet hair dangling in thick clumps across his cheeks, shifts his weight forward, and presses smiling lips against Thomas' 'mouth.' He kisses Thomas' face twice, then moves to kiss Thomas' neck, where he knows Thomas will actually feel it.

  
The kisses are a little slicker, a little warmer than usual. The pressure is as gentle as ever.

  
Guy's hands find their way into Thomas', and that small gesture fills Thomas with a great sense togetherness. They remain there until the water starts losing its heat, and the two of them are forced to finish their prolonged bathing.

  
When they get out to help towel each other dry, Guy does not cross his arms or turn away from Thomas anymore. Thomas starts to think that maybe waterproofing was not such a useless upgrade after all.


End file.
